The Blacks Are Back!
by VelvetyNightSky
Summary: AU Post GoF. When Arcturus Black sees something unusual on the family tree, he starts to investigate…and gets a whole lot more than he bargained for. Dumbledore and Voldemort aren't what they seem, and a couple of his family members are suspiciously alive. So, he does what all Blacks do when they realize something's wrong: they take over.
1. Prologue: Beware The Patient Man

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**THE BLACKS ARE BACK!**

_Rated for _mild language, suggestive jokes, and battle scenes.

Let the fic commence!

_Prologue: Beware The Patient Man_

The man swilled his brandy as he stared into the room from the doorway.

The room itself was not a large one. In fact, there was nothing in it. There were no windows or fireplaces, but the polished ebony floor and ceiling still gleamed. Despite the fact the floor was bare, the walls were not. Three of the four walls were covered, floor to twenty-foot ceiling, in portraits of various sizes and shapes. All the occupants of the frames had the same black hair and gray eyes. Bedecking the fourth wall, at the back of the room, was the family tree, that stretched from floor to ceiling as well, the top proudly holding a faded family crest.

Not just _any _family - the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black.

_Torjous Pur…_

Oh, the glory of the Blacks.

The man let out a bitter laugh as he shook his head. The aged man looked like he could've been one of the portraits - he had the same features as the occupants, though his black hair was graying and eyes dark, he was just as immaculately groomed and lonely.

Twisting one of the many rings on his fingers, Arcturus sighed. He nearly slumped against the doorframe, but that would be ill-befitting for a man of his stature. Whatever stature there was left in the Black family. It didn't matter, anyway - he had stood in this doorway once a day, every day, for the past twenty-five years. He would manage. Ninety-five wasn't _that _old.

Arcturus swallowed. He may not be that old, but he _felt _old. He had spent the last quarter-decade in near solitude; there was no greater pain than watching people he cared for die around him. He was the Head of House and it was his job to make sure that every member of the House was happy, well-cared for, and in harmony with the others and all needs attended to. Against his will, his heart gave a pang.

_That _was one task he had failed, and Arcturus would gladly own up to it.

Arcturus closed his eyes and looked away, but did not move from the doorway.

This was his ritual, as it had been for so many years. He couldn't remember exactly when he picked it up…maybe it had started when his sister, brother, and wife died. At least somewhere in between Dorea, Andromeda, Narcissa, and Bellatrix's engagements and consecutive or eventual estrangements. Or maybe when Alphard, who had finally had enough, blasted himself off the family tree. Or, perhaps, when Sirius ran away and Regulus joined the Dark Lord. Maybe when Lucretia's, his daughter's, twin sons were killed by Death Eaters and their sister married a Weasley. Possibly when Dorea's son and his wife were killed - betrayed by Sirius - and their child sent to live with Muggles. Or when Callidora's grandson and his wife were tortured into insanity by Bellatrix and she was sent to Azkaban. Perhaps the true breaking point was when he was denied access to his grandson and great-nephews - or maybe when his children, nephews, and nieces finally died…the date mattered naught.

His House was in ruins.

_"That's all you care about!" _Arcturus recalled Sirius roaring at him nearly twenty years ago. _"Your precious House, its dynasty - its so-called _purity! _Well, _my lord, _I'll tell you this…there is no dynasty unless there is a family - and the day there is a family somewhere in this bunch of inbred monsters is the day hell freezes over!"_

Arcturus didn't know how he missed it, or why he didn't do anything, but every member had ended up dead, estranged, insane, or incarcerated.

Some were all of the above.

All he knew was that, suddenly, he found himself staring at the tree every morning when he woke up, wondering what happened to cause his glorious house - _family, _Arcturus suddenly thought - to fall so far from grace.

In the objective scheme of things, this was - in all honesty - rather pathetic. Arcturus wasn't an old man, but he felt like one. To anyone who cared (and, sadly, no one really did anymore) he was as good as dead. In fact, the _Daily Prophet _had released his obituary three years ago, after he spent six months in solitude after his daughter's death.

Arcturus didn't bother to correct them. This was much to Cassiopeia's - his cousin, one of the three remaining _true _Blacks - annoyance ("We are Blacks; they should know and glorify us!"). But he was far past the glory of the House of Black.

Arcturus had seen far too much of what "blood purity" and "glory" had done to his family. (When did he start thinking of relatives as a _family, _as opposed to his house? He didn't know, and he honestly didn't care. Because, as much as they could get on his nerves, he loved his family.) Where had the true glory of the Blacks gone? It lay shattered on the floor, and originally he had blamed anyone and everything for that. Now, he wasn't so blind. Arcturus may not have dropped it, but he let it shatter. If given a chance, Arcturus knew he would give anything to redo the past and reunite his family.

Arcturus sighed, gave into his old bones, and slumped against the doorframe. As much as he hated it, he wasn't going to get another chance.

Rubbing a tired hand over his face, suddenly something in the corner of his eye caught his attention.

_Surely not…_

Blinking, he moved into the room, completely forgetting the imaginary boundary over the door. Arcturus was intent on something on the tree under Sirius's name.

Despite the fact that Walburga had blasted Sirius off the tree in Grimmauld Place, Sirius was still a member of the House of Black. Sirius had been Heir to the House of Black since his birth, and only if Sirius had violated the Three Values of the House could he be blasted off the tree. Regardless of Sirius' rule-breaking nature, or his criminal record, he hadn't done so - Sirius remained the heir to this day.

Arcturus knew that Sirius was quite aware of that fact. That was why Sirius' blood-adopted godson, Harry Potter, had been made Sirius's heir at birth. While blood-adopted heirs weren't usually accepted, Harry was also a member of the House of Black as Dorea's grandson and James's (Antares's) son. Every member of the House of Black, whether they were of the main lineage or not, had a Black family name used in addition to their given one to make sure there could be no connections by simply looking at the family tree, which was easily accessible knowledge.

A clever trick, thought out by Apodis Black, to go along with the magic on the family tree.

Besides name and birth/death dates, the tree had been imbued with blood magic to show each family member's current location, health status, and any important achievements or bits of information the head, lord, or heir of the house needed to know about that Member.

Arcturus skimmed past the things he already knew, including Sirius's weak state of health and heavily warded location, all the way down to his 'achievements'_, _for lack of a better word.

_Ordered by Bartemius Crouch to be imprisoned for a life-long sentence without a trial in the Prison Fortress of Azkaban on November 1st, 1981, in the High Security Block in solitary confinement for the alleged murder of twelve Muggles and Peter Pettigrew; the crime of which was framed by Peter Pettigrew. Sirius was able to escape after twelve years of solitary confinement and has not been apprehended. _(See "Heir Sirius Orion Black III of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black: Murderer or Martyr? A Full Biography" for details.)

That was all Arcturus needed to know. Standing up, he strode angrily out of the room, determination flashing in his stormy eyes.

Yes, he had made many mistakes in the past twenty-five years. No, this wouldn't even begin to cover the multitude of debts he owed his grandson. No, this really wouldn't make a dent in the whole scheme of things he had done. He couldn't ever fix his family completely, or bring them back.

But he could sure as hell avenge them.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or JKR's works.


	2. Things That Go Bump In The Night

Thank you all SO MUCH for you reviews, favorites, follows, or just views!

_Chapter One_

_Things That Go Bump In The Night_

"I don't mean to offend you, dearest cousin," Cassiopeia began, raising an articulated eyebrow as she put her napkin to her lips. "but I happen to think this is positively _marvelous _idea."

"That means she thinks you're insane, Artie," Pollux chuckled into his wine glass. The trio, made up of Arcturus and his two cousins, sat alone at the long ebony table that was built for forty, a low fire crackling in a fireplace behind the head of the table. The rain pitter-pattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows that were framed by heavy silver drapes and peered over the foggy green hills and tree-studded landscape of somewhere between Kingsclere and Overton. The navy blue ceiling, vaulted twenty feet in the air and supported by arches, made the room very large and very lonely.

"But, really," Pollux added in a more concerned tone, taking a liberal swig of wine. There was a glimmer of hope in his eyes, which made Arcturus suppress a grim smile. Things were going as he wanted. "Do have _any _idea of what you are getting yourself into? Haven't you done any research? This entire thing could be a farce. I remember Pettigrew - he was dumpy little boy. Nothing compared to our heir, however _Gryffindor _Sirius was."

Arcturus took a sip of his own wine, staring at his untouched chocolate eclair on his silver plate in what he hoped passed for quiet contemplation as he leaned back in his chair.

"Of course it could," he said indifferently. He hoped the fire would cast a shadow over his aristocratic features; make him look more brooding. "Of course I did my research, what do you take me for? But I do not see a reason for alarm. After all, what harm could come by simply looking into the matter?"

"You _are _insane," Pollux said in awe. "This is hilarious. Cassie, start taking notes. I want blackmail."

"Oh, be quiet," Cassiopeia snapped, ignoring Pollux. "We _know _you, Arcturus. You don't want to "look into" this matter anymore than Charlus Potter wanted to have a friendly chat with Mad-Eye Moody. You want revenge, and you want it now - and of course you didn't do your research. That's as hopelessly impossible as asking you to dress yourself."

"You don't seem to be objecting," Arcturus lifted his eyes from his plate, smirking. "Is this assent, I hear? Doing research is about as fun as slow dieting, Cassiopeia, and I don't see _you _doing that."

"Assent to get yourself killed?" Pollux mulled, a wicked grin on his face. "Well, I suppose so."

"Silence, Pollux. I do not believe this scheme has anything to do with _us, _Arcturus," Cassiopeia said sharply, eyes flashing, and rose from her seat. "As much as you enjoy family reunions, you don't need our help. Unless your mother really _did _teach you nothing."

Arcturus' lips thinned.

"Listen to me, cousins," Arcturus hissed, narrowing his eyes. "We are old. We have nothing left - no family, no power, and not even a friend to our name. As much as we dislike it, this blame is our own. We let this happen. Forget our _House - _our _family _is dead because of our inactions. Our children, our brothers and sisters, our nieces and nephews. We might as well be their murderers. And do you know what? Some of our children _are _murderers."

Cassiopeia slowly sat down, looking pale. Pollux put his glass down, hand shaking.

"We have watched this House fall," Arcturus continued as Pollux turned his eyes to the window. "But most of all, we have watched our family fall. Because of our inability to action ourselves, our inability to teach our children right from wrong, from our inability to _love _our family. And now…Sirius, for all his faults, rotted away in Azkaban for twelve years - betrayed by a person who was his best friend, and more family than we _ever _were. And we did nothing."

A draft drifted through the suddenly darker room, making the fire shudder and leaving a trail of goosebumps as the rain increased in tempo.

"And what can we do?" Pollux asked, still looking fixedly out the window. "Anyone who could prove Sirius innocent is long dead."

"Do you remember that girl Charlus's boy married, the one who Sirius became close with?" Arcturus reached once more for his glass. "I believe Lily Evans regarded Sirius as a brother. She had a Muggle sister - we, three interested customers of her husband's drilling company, will be having lunch with them tomorrow at noon in their lovely Surrey abode."

Cassiopeia snorted. "Well, I suppose you _can _dress yourself."

* * *

The door eased open just as the grandfather clock on the floor below struck one.

Harry crept out of his room and into the hallway, dodging the patches of moonlight on the floor as he cautiously checked that his relatives were asleep.

After making sure that the snores from Dudley and Uncle Vernon weren't just fake - they could be, you know - and that Aunt Petunia's muffled sleep-talking was joining in on the chorus, Harry grinned to himself.

Swinging himself on to the staircase's banister with practiced ease, he gave them a salute before sliding all the way down the banister with silent laughter.

Harry gave a bow after he finished with a perfectly silent landing.

_Ten points to Potter! _Harry cheered in his head as he struck a pose.

Harry sauntered down the hall to the kitchen, pausing only to give a cheeky salute to the half-moon. For as long as Harry Potter could remember, the moon meant freedom. Nighttime was an old, welcome friend.

Harry bobbed his head in time to a song he had heard earlier that day while he rooted through the pantry. Harry threw down the pickles on the kitchen table with the rest of his loot as he reached the chorus, and leapt onto a chair as he rocked his air guitar to the solo. Harry strode from chair to chair, not making a sound, until he vaulted from the last chair to the kitchen table, doing is best Van Halen impression for the finale.

_A nine and a half, _Harry nodded definitively from where he stood in the middle of the kitchen table, sandwich fixings piled around his feet. Aunt Petunia's prized chandelier swung lazily like a drunken pendulum in front of him. Harry snagged the finial and halted its process. _More bass, less drums._

_No more midnight snacks for Ed, _Harry sniggered silently at the chandelier as he bounded off the kitchen table to land noiselessly in the sink.

Extracting his feet from claws of the metal sink-demon, Harry hopped from counter to kitchen table to counter across the kitchen with grace so silent it would make a ballet teacher weep in envy.

Harry finally settled both feet on the floor, a massive grin plastered across his face as he went about fixing his sandwich (full of things that Dudley hated and therefore Petunia rarely used), making sure to add liberal amounts of food and place his trophy on Aunt Petunia's best china. (The hand-painted, hand-picked pieces of the china set just _happened _to have been liberated from a conveniently triple-locked, deadbolted kitchen cupboard only accessible with the key from inside Petunia's safe box; the safe box, of course, was buried in the back of Petunia's closet under fourteen pairs of jeans from the late eighties.)

Harry placed all of his ingredients back where he found them - in the backs of the cupboards, where Petunia paid minimal attention - and then settled himself in Uncle Vernon's kitchen chair after he quadruple-checked that everything in the kitchen looked just as it had when his aunt had finished her nightly cleaning routine. Harry had done this long enough - and learned from his mistakes - to know not to use any of the appliances nor disturb anything visible to a cursory glance.

Aunt Petunia's china was a vengeful exception.

Harry dug into his sandwich with a satisfied smile, propping his feet up on the table as he inhaled the rest of it.

Licking his fingers after he finished it all, Harry made sure the table was in tip-top condition before he scrubbed the china with a still-damp sponge. Swinging himself back onto the counter, Harry stood on his tip-toes and slid the china back into its cupboard, and then locking the cupboard with Aunt Petunia's liberated keys.

Harry gave a silent yawn, and with a final, sleepy wave at the moon coruscating through the kitchen window, he made to hop back off the counter.

The lights flew on, blinding Harry, who slipped off the counter with a painful crunch as his head slammed off corner of the counter, leaving him reeling.

Harry staggered to his feet, blinking rapidly and shaking his head as he reached for the counter to steady himself.

"Holy hell," Harry mumbled, waving his arm blindly as he attempted to shield himself from the raging white. "'M in hell, aren't I?"

"POTTER!"

"I'm in hell," Harry confirmed, backing as far into the counter as he could; far away from Uncle Vernon, who looked like an incensed, plaid bull. Vernon's entire face was a bright magenta color that actually matched Petunia's complexion nicely.

"You," hissed Uncle Vernon, striding into the kitchen with bloodshot eyes flashing.

Harry swallowed, dread and adrenaline coursing through him.

"Sir - " he attempted to interrupt Vernon's odd march to the counters. "Sir, I heard a noise - I came to see - "

"See?" Vernon repeated, swinging around toward Harry. "_See_? Well, I'll tell you what _I _see, Potter," Vernon's eyes narrowed as he turned back to the counter and yanked a butcher knife out of the knife rack.

Harry froze. It felt like he had suddenly taken a dip in the Antarctic Ocean. His hand inched for his back pocket, eyes locked on Vernon, but he was suddenly very aware that his wand was upstairs, hidden in his pillowcase.

"I see a vagrant rat who I should've pitched out the minute Pet found you," Vernon snarled, leveling the butcher knife at him. "I see a bastard child - should be ashamed to call himself a human - "

Harry attempted to push himself back onto the counter, but his vision tunneled as his head rang with rushing blood and he slipped down again. He fought for comprehensive thought. Something was wrong with Vernon, more than his stench. Vernon was neglectful, but he had never actually _beaten _Harry, more than the usual slaps - he would never had wanted the neighbors to find out.

And he most certainly did _not _wield knives.

"Uncle Vernon," Harry called in his most pacifying voice. "Uncle Vernon, it's me - Harry! Please, you don't want to do this - I'm Harry - please…I'm your nephew, remember?"

"Oh, I remember," spat Vernon as he stalked forward. Harry's breath increased in tempo as he scrambled to get away, but his master of the night skills failed him again and his head rebelled against sudden movement.

Vernon snagged the collar of his t-shirt and whipped Harry around to face him while Harry's back dug into the counter. Vernon's breath ran over Harry's face - rancid and thick like the smell of Snape's classroom.

"_Please_!" Harry rasped as the tip of the knife pressed in between two of his lower ribs. Harry's heart pounded in his chest. He played his most desperate card. "Uncle Vernon - the neighbors are watching - they'll see y - ah…"

Vernon slid in and out of Harry's vision as he slid down the counters and on to the floor.

Harry blindly grasped for his chest - there was something sticky. Pain strangled him - what was going on? Was it…what was that on his hands…?

Light filtered in and out of his vision as the disorientation increased. Something slammed painfully into his back, one after another…one after another…something was slipping and sliding on his back, on his chest. Harry wanted it _off_ him. What _was_ it? It cracked and crusted on his hands. But one after another…

Stairs. He was being dragged up stairs.

But this wasn't what stairs felt like - Hogwarts had stairs. He would walk up and down stairs everyday. Everybody in Hogwarts had really defined calf muscles. Neville would fall through the trick steps. Hermione knew what staircases changed on Fridays. Ron would say, "Bloody hell," whenever they had to go up from dinner to Gryffindor Tower. Harry had agreed.

But pain was ripping through, throttling him - not like Voldemort's Cruciatus. It was like a dementor's hands on his neck, prying apart his jaw and sucking all the air out of him so there was nothing left. It ate up his lungs and left him breathless, pain crisscrossing and jarring and unsolvable like the crossword puzzles Hermione liked or playing chess with Ron or watching the twins speak.

These weren't stairs. Not really - he was just being dragged down the merry lane into Hell. Or wherever it was wizards went. But when would the pain stop? What was drying and sticking to him?

When would it end…?

Suddenly, there was the slam of a door and obnoxious light filled his vision. Hell was here.

A voice - not Uncle Vernon, not the tormentor of his childhood, not the main feature starring in his nightmares - rang out.

"Didn't your mother teach you not to touch what isn't yours, Potter?"

Ah. Blood. That's what it was.

Ten points to Potter.

The door slammed and nighttime fell upon him once more.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or JKR's works.


	3. Danse Macabre

_Chapter Two_

_Danse Macabre_

Cassiopeia Black, upon principle, did not trust people with mustaches.

(That was most likely why Pollux had insisted upon a mustache ever since he was able.)

Vernon Dursley was not an exception to this rule.

Arcturus had insisted they hire someone to take them in one of those Muggle contraptions - a car, specifically a large black one - which meant that Cassiopeia had to put up with Pollux's complaining about how much time it was taking for an hour and three minutes. She had nearly agreed with her brother, until he started going on about how _comfortable _and _warm _these Muggle contraptions were despite the time it took.

Then, she simply _had_ to disagree.

However, it _was _well worth it when the clock hit eleven-forty and they rolled into the cookie-cutter neighborhood with its pristine green lawns and all around people's jaws were dropping, especially looking at their perfectly tailored business suits.

After all, it wasn't like Cassiopeia could expect Muggles to know the prestige that came with having a house hooked up to the Floo Network for a simple meeting - never mind the fact the suspicion that would arise if three Blacks, especially a supposedly dead one, were to waltz into the Department of Magical Transportation and say they needed a Floo hooked up because they had a lunch date with Muggles.

Petunia Dursley had answered the door - looking nothing at all like her sister - with such smiles and sincere compliments that even Cassiopeia had been nearly impressed with her hosting skills. Especially when Petunia had managed to the sell the mound of flesh in the corner called Dudley as a prosperous young boy.

As expected, Pollux had made Petunia giggle and blush and enthralled her with tales of his daring youth, while Arcturus - who could be charming when the occasion called for it - was the perfect gentlemen. Cassiopeia, herself, had chipped in a few comments about her skill in the garden.

Cassiopeia wouldn't begin to trust a Muggle with anything, but seeing how good of a show Petunia put on made Cassiopeia trust her even less.

And then Vernon Dursley waddled into the room, home from a business meeting and mustache bristling, and Cassiopeia had started silently casting diagnostic spells on nearby vases.

Only by the time they had retired to the dining room, twelve o'clock on the dot, and were being served a delicious serving of roasted salmon and boiled asparagus, was Cassiopeia actually starting to get suspicious.

"So, what is this I hear about boxing?" Pollux asked conversationally, leaning back in his chair and rubbing his whiskers as he took a generous sip of wine. "I, myself, am not familiar with the sport - care to enlighten me, Vernon?"

"Oh, of course, of course," Vernon chuckled. "It's a simple sport, really - but takes a lot of thinking and _strategizing,_ you know - "

Arcturus was nodding along over the brim of his wine glass, seemingly interested in the conversation, but Cassiopeia could see from the way his eyes were trained on Petunia that he was using quick Legilimency probes on her - not enough to damage, just to get the information.

That was when, from her vantage point facing the kitchen, did her sharp eyes pick up on something making a stained path on the linoleum floor.

"Excuse me," Cassiopeia interrupted. "But could you direct me to the powder room?"

"Oh, of course," Petunia said quickly. "It's just up the stairs and is the second door to the left."

Cassiopeia thanked her and made her way out the dining room. Once she was out of sight in the hallway, she drew her wand and slowly made her way up the stairs, following the stain traces carefully.

It was not until she made it to the second floor landing were her suspicions confirmed. The beige rug was stained with an ugly rust color which made a thin trail to the last door on the right side.

_"Alohomora." _

The six different locks clicked open, and Cassiopeia flicked her wand to ease open the door. The acrid stench of blood and stale air wafted out as the midday sun illuminating the scarlet puddles on the floor.

Cassiopeia Black, upon principle, did not trust people with mustaches.

And now she had proof as to why.

* * *

Harry wondered if this was some sort of punishment.

He was pretty convinced it could be - stuck right up there with being burnt at the stake, vultures pecking out your insides, and pushing a boulder up a hill only for it come rolling right back down.

All he could hear was the steady _drip-drop…drip-drop_ of blood onto the floor and his own rasping breath coming out slower and slower as light blared off of the shiny knife still stuck in his chest like a Christmas ham.

Harry wondered if he'd been a serial killer in a past life.

After all, there was no better time to contemplate your mortality than in between lapses of unconsciousness while bleeding out on the floor of the bedroom you had spent the better part of four summers locked up in, the only sanctuary from an apparently psychotic uncle.

Harry sort of wished the shiny butcher knife was a sword - at least, that way, he could die with dignity. He wished he'd just been able to die during the night, when he wouldn't have to deal with the sun burning out his corneas.

Harry wished a lot of things - he wished he'd taken Fred and George up on that offer to prank Malfoy, that he'd used the Marauder's Map more, that he'd visited Hermione during the summer, that he'd spent more time laughing and less time worrying.

Life happened to be a lot shorter than Harry had expected.

…he kind of wished he'd known that sooner, so he could've lived it to its fullest. What kind of life was a life where you just waited for the next challenge to come knocking at your door?

Harry didn't want to die yet - not when he hadn't even kissed Cho, or had a firewhiskey with Ron, or managed to catch the Snitch from right under Malfoy's smug nose.

Harry Potter wasn't the sort of kid who asked for a lot. In fact, he didn't ask for anything - and he'd watched someone murdered in front of him nine days ago and been tortured by the reborn Dark Lord himself.

He had even taken the nightmares without complaint. When he'd wake up muffling his own hoarse yells or aching from the phantom Cruciatus Curse, Harry had just become semi-nocturnal. Roaming around during the night meant freedom, and sleeping during the day meant protection from Cedric's dying wish and his parents' haunting words and Voldemort's laugh.

Harry couldn't move; hadn't tried. There was no way he was going to survive for someone to rescue him - if anyone knew.

It wasn't fair.

Harry didn't ask for much. But was it too much to ask for someone to remember him, to listen to him complain about everything that went wrong in a life where he hadn't even learned how to Apparate yet?

The door creaked open.

With his lopsided glasses everything was fuzzy, but he could make out the blurry figure of an older, stately woman, with a wand drawn.

Harry was miles from Ron or Hermione or Sirius.

"Please…" he croaked. Black dotted his vision - his friend was on its way. Harry was vaguely surprised his voice worked at all as the woman knelt at his side, making little splashes in the pools of his blood. "Please…will you…stay with me…?"

Maybe it was destiny: to lie alone on the floor, waiting for death, after so many years of curling up on the floor of a cupboard, waiting for night. But was it too much to ask for someone - anyone, even this strange woman - to remember him as the boy who bled out on the floor, cleaved in by his own uncle?

For the first time in his life, Harry thought that he had drawn the short end of the stick.

But most importantly, he thought it wasn't fair.

"Of course, dear," Harry heard the woman's voice, sharp and taut, as his eyes slid shut. "Of course."

Darkness arrived once more.

It wasn't _fair._

And Harry Potter gave his old friend the metaphorical finger.

Destiny be damned, he wasn't dying yet.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or JKR's works, no copyright infringement intended.


	4. An Exercise In Exorcism

_Chapter Three_

_An Exercise in Exorcism _

"I _told _you so," Cassiopeia said imperiously.

"Cassie, how in Salazar's name was I supposed to know he was gutting his nephew just because he had a mustache?" Pollux argued, gesturing with his half-full wine glass to the prostrate Dursleys on the maple flooring of the dining room.

Arcturus pinched the bridge of his nose. This day was _not _going as planned. Arcturus wasn't sure if that was good or not.

The dinner itself had gone well - he had extracted the information needed from Petunia, Vernon had been completely taken by Pollux's grand storytelling skills, and Dudley had consumed more food that Arcturus thought possible. It had been verifiably egregious, of course, seeing as they _were _Muggles, but what must be done must be done. All had been going marvelously until Cassiopeia had left for the bathroom and then returned in a steaming rage, wand aloft and nostrils flared.

Also, she had been toting a dying Harry Potter.

Now, the impact of the situation had only been improved by Pollux and him having to knock out the three Dursleys - especially after Vernon had bellowed, "FREAKS!" and gone for his butter knife; Cassiopeia was ready to murder him on the spot - and then having to Obliviate the lot of them.

"We won't _leave _him here, Pollux; are you mad? Harry Potter is my great-nephew, which makes him _yours _as well! Or did you forget about Dorea?"

"Of course not, you old bat! Dorea was my sister, too, Cassie - I'm not saying we should _leave _him, but we need to figure out why in the blazes he's _here _of all places!"

"Mayhap that horrid Muggle woman is his _aunt_, you hardheaded old codger?"

And not to mention dealing with Cassiopeia and Pollux's _incessant_ arguing.

"Let us set things straight," Arcturus interrupted, taking a generous sip of his wine. He frowned as he drained it all. "We have knocked out and Obliviated three Muggles, so the Ministry will be bearing down on us any minute, Harry Potter - the boy Sirius has named Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black - is slowly bleeding to death in Cassiopeia's arms, in the midst of this I have gathered the information we need, and my wine glass is empty. Seeing as this situation does require some urgency, I do believe this means it is time to take our leave, cousins."

"Well, when you put it like that, Artie, everything so sounds terrible," Pollux frowned.

"It _is _terrible, you old coot," Cassiopeia snapped before turning back to Arcturus. "How, exactly, should we exit this situation? I ran a few diagnostic charms already, there's nothing malignant around."

"Cassiopeia, take Harry back to Black Manor and have the house-elves set him up in the Heir's chambers whilst you go and alert the family physician," Arcturus instructed. Harry Potter would not die, not under his watch. "Pollux, stay behind to clean up this mess, would you? Make sure you do a complete diagnostic work, clear out anything the Ministry could find, and find Harry's possessions. I'll go back to the Manor when Pollux is finished and draw up the paperwork to make sure this needn't occur again."

Pollux nodded and drew his wand as Cassiopeia marched toward the front door, already casting shielding and privacy charms around herself.

Arcturus turned toward the kitchen door, fury coiling within him as he clenched his wine glass tightly. _No one _hurt his family. What he wouldn't give to get to strangle the person who put Harry Potter here.

Luckily, he could do that with legal work.

* * *

"Are you saying you _will_ join the Order, Alastor?"

"No, I'm saying that I've got a desire to take up the ballet," Moody sneered, stumping from the fireplace to the chair in front of Dumbledore's desk. The midday light streamed into the circular office, bringing to life rich scarlets, sparkling golds, and the dust the Headmaster's many books had collected. "What else would I be saying, Albus?" he barked.

Dumbledore's eyes twinkled as Moody sat down heavily in the chair.

"I just mean to make sure," Dumbledore said merrily from where he sat behind his desk. "After all, it isn't everyday you meet a ballerina with a wooden leg. But are you _sure, _Alastor?" he pressed.

"You ask me one more time and I'll show you how sure I am," Moody snapped, magical eye spinning wildly. "What the hell's so important you have to hold my hand to ask me if I wanna join the Order? Is it that prophecy of yours, eh?"

Dumbledore frowned, leaning forward. "You know of the prophecy - ?"

" - only one can live if the other die, and all that dragon dung," Moody waved a dismissive hand as he took a swig from his flask. "Would be pretty damned easy to guess even if I hadn't been keeping tabs on Charlus Potter. Bastard."

"Charlus Potter was a fine man - "

" - and very good for his family, yeah," Moody nodded. "But not too good if you need someone to get off their lordly arse and help, eh?" Both of Moody's eyes focused on Dumbledore. "But you already know that, don't you? So why are you so scared?"

"I am hesitant," Dumbledore's eyes flashed with steel. "You and Charlus haven't the best history, and while I believe that you can put it behind you for Harry's sake - "

" - but Potter's sake isn't what you want me for. What is it, then?" Moody prodded. "Something up your sleeve? Or up your arse?"

Dumbledore rose, walking around his desk to face Moody.

"The prophecy…how I have interpreted it," Dumbledore began with deliberate slowness. "Harry must - "

A loud shriek cut him off, and Dumbledore whirled around, robes flaring, as Moody drew his wand at lightening speed.

Dumbledore stared at the spindly silver instrument, which was puffing out scarlet smoke and making intervals of loud screeching noises.

Moody snorted, jabbed his wand, and the instrument exploded.

"Alert the Order," Dumbledore breathed, eyes transfixed on where alarm once stood. "Harry Potter is missing."

Moody stumped towards the door with an agreeable growl.

"And whatever you do - " Dumbledore warned as Moody paused. "Do not tell Sirius Black."

* * *

"Draco, could you please inform me what, in the name of all that is holy, was possessing you to do this?"

Draco Malfoy glared at the ebony floors of his father's office. Greenish, ambient light filtered in through the stained-glass windows behind his father's imposingly large and ebony desk that, accented with silver, gleamed while Lucius Malfoy himself sat in a large, wingbacked chair behind the desk, rubbing his forehead and leaning on his elbows. The room was ringed in floor-to-ceiling ebony bookcases that were stuffed with leather-bound books. Draco sat in one of the two green satin-cushioned chairs placed in front of the desk, very interested in his father's choice of boot.

"It wasn't that big of deal," Draco sulked. "He was a bad teacher - a bad _ghost _teacher that no one would get rid of!"

"Cuthbert Binns was tenured!" Lucius exploded. "If anyone gets wind of the fact that you _exorcised _him - "

"Nobody will!" Draco protested. "C'mon, Father, he was a disgrace to the Malfoy name - all he would lecture about were the Goblin Rebellions and Giant Wars."

"He _was _a distant Potter cousin," Lucius said, annoyed. "What did you expect?"

Silence.

"Nobody saw me," Draco added, crossing his arms. "It was lunch, Dumbledore was holed up in some meeting - I didn't even leave a trace."

"Except for, of course, the missing ghost," Lucius pointed out. He then sighed, "Never mind. Son…" Lucius shook his head. "You had better be able to recite your Giant Wars and Goblin Rebellions in under two hours."

Lucius stared expectantly at Draco, who shifted uncomfortably.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Lucius prodded. "Start reciting," he checked his pocketwatch. "You've got one hour and fifty-nine minutes."

Draco groaned.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or JKR's works. No copyright infringement intended.

Note: Also, should I mention this is a manipulative!Dumbledore fic? I promise that Dumbledore will be portrayed as human, even though not necessarily the good guy - I really should put that in my blurb. *sheepish, awkward laugh*

Up next:

_Chapter Four_

_Bad Things Afoot_


	5. Bad Things Afoot

_Chapter Four_

_Bad Things Afoot_

When Harry woke up the first time, he immediately came to the conclusion he had, indeed, been a serial killer in a past life.

After all, that's the only reason he would have been repeatedly run over by a truck.

"Oopsy-daisy!" trilled an unfamiliar female voice that caused a lumberjack to go chopping away on his head. "He wasn't _supposed _to wake up - "

"Then put him back to sleep, you insufferable twit," snapped another female voice, a little more familiar than the first.

_"Somnus," _Harry thought he heard the first woman say, but he must've been dreaming. That didn't stop him from hoping.

When Harry woke up the second time, he immediately became convinced that he had been a very kind, giving person who was martyred for helping feed poor children.

That was the only way he could be this comfortable, and that was what most definitely put him on high alert. Never had he been _this_ comfortable - at the Dursleys', at Hogwarts, at the Burrow.

Harry struggled to open his eyes; he didn't want to move. Harry was laying on a very soft mattress with warm, silky sheets swaddled around him. There was no throbbing agony in his side, no slow heartbeat, no constant drip-drop of his blood, no crackle of blood drying, and no constant echo of, _"Didn't your mother teach you not to touch what isn't yours, Potter?" _banging around his much-abused skull.

When he finally summoned the will to open his eyes, he was met with a blurry mess of black and gray. Harry reached out an arm, patting around for his glasses, but only encountered more soft, plushiness.

"Those are pillows, dear. You would think you'd never seen one," came that vaguely familiar, female voice. "Here are your glasses."

Someone, indeed, slid his glasses on his face. Harry blinked when the room came into focus. He was parked in a king-size, four-poster bed draped in gray silks and black velvets that hid all but the left side and with the same gray, silk sheets and an overly stuffed, black velvet comforter embroidered with silver stars and propped up against fluffy down pillows. Two ebony nightstands stood on either side, one with - Harry heaved a sigh of relief - his wand and the other stockpiled with potions.

…that probably explained why Harry felt so very, very relaxed.

On the left side of the bed regally sat a woman who reminded Harry of schoolteachers from the Victorian era - stately and stern. She had olive, hawkish features and sharp, slate grey eyes with perfectly coiffed black hair that glinted like raven feathers. Black overrobes were draped over a black gown that glittered with opal buttons all the way from below her chin to her midriff and was embroidered with the three silver stars on each wrist.

Before Harry could open his mouth, the woman spoke.

"I do not believe we have been formally introduced," she said grandly, offering him a hand. "I am Cassiopeia Black."

_Black? _Harry wondered. _Like Sirius? _But Harry awkwardly took her hand and shook it. She had an surprisingly strong grip. "Ah…I'm Harry Potter."

They released hands and Harry fiddled with the edge of the comforter as silence fell. He could feel Cassiopeia's eyes on him.

"So," he said eventually. "I'm drugged, aren't I? 'Cause I haven't, you know - " Harry waved a hand towards the shut curtains on the bed and then let it flop on the pillows. " - run. Or whatever."

"I haven't any idea as to why you would do that," Cassiopeia arched an eyebrow. "It was only a mild Calming Potion, dear, and a couple of pain relieving potions as well as a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Being stabbed generally means you loose blood."

Harry gave a dry swallow at the mention of his recent adventure, but otherwise said nothing. He supposed it was good Cassiopeia was being honest as to what potions she fed him.

"So…you healed me?" Harry asked, for lack of anything else to say.

"The family physician did," Cassiopeia informed him. Harry tentatively touched his chest, where he could feel gauzes wrapped loosely. "Healer Sophia Koloman did - the woman is a tad flighty, but she is one of the best. Unfortunately."

"Right…" Harry rubbed his forehead. "And…er…you are, again…?"

Cassiopeia heaved a long-suffering sigh. "I am Cassiopeia Black, as I said. Your great-aunt."

"My _what_ - ?" Harry said incredulously, sitting up straighter with a slight wince.

"Your father's mother, Dorea, was my sister," Cassiopeia said patiently. "And as for why I did not come for you sooner…" she sighed once more, this time seeming a lot more heartfelt. "I was unaware as to your whereabouts, Harry, or else I would have fetched you very much sooner, mark my words."

"Wait, wait, wait," Harry backpedaled. "You are my great-aunt - "

" - Aunt Cassiopeia, yes - "

" - and you just _found _me, at the _Dursleys' _of all places, and then _kidnapped _me?"

"Yes," Cassiopeia said primly.

Harry stared, and then ran a hand through his hair. This was…he must be dreaming. Some deranged fever hallucination in the midst of dying as a result of his last wish. That, or he was going crazy.

Harry must've accidentally voiced that thought, because Cassiopeia's countenance softened as she leaned forward.

"Harry," she said, looking directly into his eyes as she took one of his hands lightly in her own. "I promise you that I am here, and I am real. Not only that, but I will be supremely displeased should you write me off as delirium. I have taken you - "

" - kidnapped," Harry interjected, not completely at ease.

" - because you are my nephew," Cassiopeia continued. "Not for any other reason, Boy-Who-Lived or not. Besides," she patted his hand and then leaned back in her chair. "I am here to help you, to care for you. Believe me, Harry, you can trust me."

Harry shifted uncomfortably, very out of sorts. It was strange, but he believed Cassiopeia, all right, (which was disconcerting in itself) but…

"You did kidnap me," Harry pointed out, trying to hold on to one thing in his muddled mind.

"I prefer the term 'surprise adoption,'" Cassiopeia said airily. "Regardless of being my great-nephew, you are Heir to our House, which gives my brother, cousin, and I some liberty when it comes to your placement."

"Hold on," Harry interrupted, struggling to keep up. He was very, very tired and very, very comfortable. "Did you say I'm an heir? Heir to _what_?"

With her eyes narrowed and her brow so thunderous, Harry vaguely wondered if Snape was Cassiopeia and Voldemort's lovechild.

* * *

Arcturus had just finished writing his letter to a Mr. Remus Lupin when Cassiopeia came storming into his office, throwing back the double doors in rage as Pollux trotted in after her.

"Please, do make yourself at home," Arcturus said dryly, not looking up from where he was stamping the Black family seal and his personal seal next to his signature.

Cassiopeia gave a wordless snarl as she paced in front of the desk where he sat. Pollux flopped down in an armchair next to the fire, wiping sweat off his brow.

"I have to tell you," Pollux huffed, wheezing slightly. "Cassie is getting more fit in her old age. I could barely take one flight of those blasted stairs - and she took three!"

"I think it's the rage," Arcturus said conversationally, sealing the letter closed. "It fuels her daily need to annihilate any obstacle and opponent, imaginary or not."

Cassiopeia spun around sharply to face Arcturus, eyes flaring.

"I'm suppose that something has upset you, my dear cousin?" Arcturus inquired, giving his letter to a waiting house-elf on the right of his wingbacked chair and pouring himself and Cassiopeia a cup of tea - spiked with whiskey, of course. They were going to need it for when Cassiopeia finally opened her mouth.

Cassiopeia gave a stiff nod as she lowered herself into a chair in front of Arcturus's desk and took the proffered tea. She took a sip and said no more.

"Please, woman, stop talking," Pollux grumbled as he got up from his chair and lumbered to take the one next to Cassiopeia. "I'm going deaf." He then sighed, "What have you gotten done, Artie?"

Arcturus placed his spiked tea aside.

"I filed all the adoption papers and legal work," he began. "Which are really just a precaution, seeing as the Dursleys were not, to my knowledge, on the Potters' will in the first place. (I'm tracking down a copy of the will, just for precaution's sake.) Should worst come to worst, I have begun to gather evidence to press charges against the Dursleys for having kidnapped Harry Potter - or, at least, aiding and abetting in kidnapping - and started the investigation of _why _Harry was there, and who placed him there. I admit…we are in the unfortunate position of not being able to extract _true _revenge on the Dursleys - they will undoubtably be protected by the Ministry after they are alerted that Harry Potter has disappeared from their home, and Harry, of course, may still have some affection from them, so we should not take any actions other than legal action against them unless Harry endorses us. I have also sent off a letter to Remus Lupin to…reel him in, shall we say. Remus Lupin knew Pettigrew, and was a friend of Sirius. He should know something. We need our evidence - _all _of it - close to us."

"And to think it's only six in the afternoon," Pollux observed.

"It could've been done in half that time had Arcturus not been pretending to be dead for the past four years," Cassiopeia snapped, "successfully ridding himself of all his connections."

Pollux clapped his hands delightedly. "Cassie's back, snappishness and all!"

"I like to think that the press just isn't that observant," Arcturus said delicately. "Please, cousin, do regale us with what you have learned."

"They are as observant as you want them to be," Cassiopeia said crisply, narrowing her eyes. "What we feared is correct. Harry did not know he was Heir to the House of Black."

Pollux frowned. "That should not be a major problem, Cassie; the boy is only fourteen. He won't have to step up as Lord to the House until he is seventeen."

"You're missing the point, Pollux," Cassiopeia snapped. "I did some Legilimency probes on him. What I found - "

"Legilimency?" Arcturus interrupted, raising his eyebrows. "You should not have been able to do that. Disregarding the Black Heir ring, the Potter Heir ring should have protected his mind from such low-level invasions."

"Exactly," Cassiopeia said coldly. "The house-elves looked through his luggage and I, then, checked it myself. His Potter Heir ring was no where to be found. Even on his body, disguised or not." Cassiopeia leaned forward. "I spoke to the boy - thankfully, I believe he trusts me, or believes me, at least - and then mentioned his status as Heir - and what did the boy say? 'Heir to _what_?'"

Dead silence followed.

"Heir to _what_?" Pollux repeated. "Heir to _what_? The boy has been deprived of basic knowledge of who he is - Black or not, he should at least know what it means to be a Potter!"

Arcturus's eyes narrowed. "Continue on, Cassiopeia. I do believe the worse is yet to come."

"How right you are!" Cassiopeia sniffed. "I spoke with him a little more after that, trying to gauge what he knew and wasting time to use some more Legilimency probes on him. From what he told me, he knows nothing of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families, including his own bloodline. I gather that all he knows is the Hogwarts curriculum and what everyday knowledge he's picked up. _That's _not all," Cassiopeia took a long drink from her teacup. "I was prodding around a little bit, not enough to be noticeable, but what did I find out? Dumbledore put him there," Cassiopeia leaned back, satisfied.

"Dumbledore? Albus Dumbledore?" Pollux sputtered; Arcturus frowned, but said nothing. "What in Salazar's good name would _Dumbledore_ put him there for, anyway?"

Cassiopeia pursed her lips. "I know not. I did not prod deep enough - but I did prod enough to see that putting him with those filthy Muggles was _not_ the only time Dumbledore was interested in Harry Potter."

Arcturus's frown deepened. "Did you find anything solid enough that we could guess as to what he wanted?"

"No," Cassiopeia admitted reluctantly. "But what I did see was that Sirius came into contact with Harry soon after he escaped. I don't know how it happened, but Dumbledore found out - Harry believes Sirius to be innocent - and Dumbledore, at least, must have verbally agreed."

"And yet he does nothing," Pollux finished, leaning back in his chair.

"Does not act on what he found," Arcturus agreed, heaving a sigh.

"That's not all," Cassiopeia said darkly. "Pollux, you remember those rumors that seamstress was spreading when she came four days ago?"

"I remember you informing her quite loudly of what it meant to gossip and work versus gossip or work," Pollux chortled, regaining some of his good humor.

"She didn't understand the concept of multitasking_," _Cassiopeia snapped. "But never mind. The silly girl was saying something about what Dumbledore was claiming - nothing official, mind you, just rumors - that the Dark Lord was _back._"

Arcturus leaned forward. "You mean to tell me - ?"

"That the Dark Lord has returned from the dead? Yes. Harry - our _Heir_, our nephew, your great-grandson, Arcturus - watched a classmate murdered in front of him by the Dark Lord, and then was tortured. Repeatedly. And yet Dumbledore has done nothing to alert the public of this. The Ministry does not give a damn."

The room was dark and silent; the fire seemed to have dampened and the gas lamps blown out.

"It is not surprising to find ourselves alone and against two foes," Pollux said gravely. "For, on this, I do believe Arcturus is right: it is time to take action. To do _something. _Regardless of the Dark Lord, or however powerful Dumbledore is, they have wronged our House…our family."

"Our House must be avenged," Cassiopeia finished. The two shared a vicious smile.

"We will," Arcturus gave a slow nod. "But we need patience, and, we are so far lucky that we have time. From what I can tell - "

" - Voldemort and Dumbledore are taking their sweet time, yes," Cassiopeia supplied. "That gives us time, as well, to plan and to gather."

"But Dumbledore is not a man who does anything without reason," Pollux interjected.

"So," Arcturus murmured. "What are his reasons?"

He sat up straighter. "Whatever his reasons, that's only background right now. It matters not. Cassiopeia, try to garner Harry's trust and start his reeducation of the Wizarding world - as impartially as possible," Arcturus added. "Harry doesn't need to be overwhelmed by prejudice that will only make him hate us. Dust the cobwebs off the Manor and our other properties - have them refurbished, make sure the wards are replenished, and purchase any new house-elves you need - all as discretely as possible. Install new wards around Harry's chambers; he must be as protected as possible. We don't need Voldemort and Dumbledore knocking on our door.

"Pollux, start making sure all those good friends and good enemies of yours haven't been up to anything recently, would you?" Arcturus asked. "Somebody needs to do the research, and it certainly won't be me. Gather newspaper clippings, old bank files, blueprints, Death Eater records, Order of the Phoenix plans - _anything _to help us understand what is going on. Cover up the traces of our involvement at Privet Drive and make sure to ease back into the world; we can't move fast enough that we will be connected to Harry's disappearance. Take care, Pollux, to remind everyone of, exactly, who the House of Black is. I, myself, shall go check into Gringotts and reestablish our financial ventures and then remind the Ministry - and the dear press - that Blacks do not take kindly to being forgotten."

Arcturus leaned back and drained his tea as Pollux checked his pocketwatch.

"I do believe it is around _that_ time - the time when black things are afoot!" Pollux announced, grinning.

Cassiopeia pinched the bridge of her nose.

* * *

"Who do they think I am?" Sirius ranted. "Does Dumbledore think I'm just going to sit back and let them go after _my _godson without _me_?"

Remus rubbed his forehead as he leaned against a tall beech.

The empty park was glowing with the last embers of day. Old, rusty equipment creaked and leaves rustled in the wind as the last children left for home. No one noticed the prison escapee and the werewolf nestled in a copse of beeches, hidden from view by large, thorny bushes.

"What does Dumbledore think?" Sirius continued to fume. "That just because I'm a _Black _means I'm going to kill the people who took Harry? Well, I'll kill them 'cause they took Harry, but that doesn't mean I'll kill them for _fun_…"

_Speaking of Blacks…_Remus thought, turning over the letter in his hands.

Four hours ago, Sirius and Remus's early dinner had been interrupted by a phoenix Patronus with Dumbledore's voice echoing out: _"Harry disappeared, search is starting - don't panic, don't look for Harry, and don't tell Sirius. Proceed to Arabella's house where the Order is waiting."_

For all his repute as the omnipotent headmaster, Dumbledore had been obviously unaware of Sirius's presence - and murderous expression - as Sirius listened to the message.

The two had proceeded to Arabella Figg's house, alright, and Sirius had leapt out of the fireplace after Remus with a maniacal gleam in his eye and a raised wand. Dumbledore, Mrs. Figg's half-kneazles, and the rest of the Order (which consisted of Minerva McGonagall, Severus Snape, Mundungus Fletcher, Kingsley Shacklebolt, and Mad-Eye Moody), had not been pleased to see him.

(That was why Sirius was currently sporting a large scratch across his face, courtesy of Snape, who Sirius then attempted to strangle before Dumbledore could intervene.)

Dumbledore had given Sirius strict orders and a stern look to stay in Arabella's house and out of the way while the Order searched the Dursleys' house. Dumbledore had pulled Remus aside and made clear how very displeased he was that Remus hadn't stopped Sirius from coming and telling Sirius about the situation, but Remus had just shrugged. He wasn't making the same mistake twice.

After the Order filed out to go search the premises and the rest of the neighborhood, Dumbledore had - with four flicks of his wand - warded all the surrounding houses to prevent Sirius and Remus from going inside and then locked the two in Arabella's house like naughty schoolboys. It had taken a total of three minutes for Sirius and Remus to thoroughly scare the cats into peeing all over the carpet (Padfoot helped with that, too) and then pick the lock to flee out into the night.

The two had taken refuge in a park that Sirius had stiffly explained was the first place he had seen Harry before dissolving into pacing and ranting while Remus sunk down against a tree, both incapable of doing anything else and no where to look for their errant (surrogate or not) godson.

"…snowball's chance in hell that _Snape's _going to find my godson…"

Only fifteen minutes ago, a black-plumed owl had zoomed out of the sky to land on Remus's shoulder, holding a letter stamped with the Black Family Crest. Remus had taken the letter from the bird, which departed immediately, but Remus didn't open the letter.

One never knew what kind of traps a Black could lay.

" - and if they think that _I'm _going to forget about this," Sirius hissed, pivoting to face Remus. "I'll show them - what…is that?"

Remus flipped the letter up to face Sirius, who stared at the letter with a suddenly unreadable look on his face.

"Open it, Remus."

"Are you sure?" Remus asked uncertainly.

Sirius gave a slow nod. "It won't hurt you."

Remus carefully opened the envelop to slide out the letter. Unfolding it, his eyebrows rose farther and farther up as he read.

"Sirius, is there a reason why your _dead _grandfather is inviting me to tea?"

* * *

A cool breeze blew over the graveyard, rustling the knotted grass and meticulous bouquets flooding over the gravestones. Dim moonlight escaped from the canopy of thick clouds to illuminate the dewy leaves on the old yew trees. Spiked iron fences surrounded the large graveyard, and an unkempt gravel path wove its way behind the small church and down, through the graveyard, for nearly a half-mile until, in the very back, it reached a mausoleum.

Surrounded by more drooping yew trees, the mausoleum was made of solemn brown stone with white marble steps that reached oaken double doors. Carved with harrow images of warriors falling and agonies of times long gone, emblazoned above the doors was: POTTER.

Inside the mausoleum, the walls were lined with columbaria while the ceiling was carved with the family crest. In the center of the mausoleum, below the crest, was a raised marble tomb.

Laying on top was a tall man with his eyes closed and arms folded across his chest, a wand in his right hand and the hilt of a silver rapier in his left.

The oaks shuddered as the wind howled, and the man took a shaky breath and opened his eyes.

As the crest came into focus, he scowled, clenching his wand tightly as his eyes darted nervously around the mausoleum.

"This had better not be a joke, Padfoot," James rasped, giving a tight grin. "Or there'll be hell to pay."

Outside, rain started to pour.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of JKR's works.

Up next:

_Chapter Five_

_Something Wicked This Way Comes_


	6. Something Wicked This Way Comes

_Chapter Five _

_Something Wicked This Way Comes_

James stumbled off the raised coffin and collapsed into a sitting position against it.

His head hit the side of the raised coffin with a dull thunk. James rubbed his eyes and tried to think.

James was in the Potter family's mausoleum, and had been lying on his father's raised coffin before he woke. The last time he had been in there was for his father's funeral, and boy, oh, _boy_ whoever's brilliant idea it was to put him here was going to pay. The marble was pristine and the bronze letters on the columbaria glowing, meaning the house-elves were doing their job.

James groaned. All he wanted to do was to go home to Harry and Lily and Padfoot and Remus and Wormy…

_No, _he thought firmly. _You're an Auror! Think!_

If he went home immediately, he could risk trailing Death Eaters to his location. Not to mention he didn't know how much time had passed - three days, three weeks? He could've been presumed dead. It was a war, after all; but Padfoot and Lily combined made a frightening combination of determination to never give up.

Still, he could only guess that a Death Eater had done this. A bit of fun, perhaps? But that didn't make sense - no Death Eater, _nobody,_ should be able to get past the wards on the mausoleum. But if they managed to knock him out, they could use his blood let them through the wards.

James grimaced. This wasn't helping. He still didn't know how much time had passed - the last thing he remembered…it had been Halloween morning, and he had gone out to get a pie crust because sweet Lily, for the life of her, couldn't make one for the pumpkin pie.

And then nothing.

…that probably wasn't good.

James struggled to his feet. St. Mungo's, he decided, no Death Eaters would be able to harm him there. Not with the wards in place -

James froze as he looked down. No, that wasn't right.

James was dressed in dragonhide boots, black pants, and a belt - there was a black jerkin over his white tunic; both edged with silver. He had overrobes on, edged with the same silver and the Potter crest over his heart and a black velvet cloak was draped over his shoulders, a thin silver chain across his chest. And the rapier in his hand…

…was the ceremonial rapier. All Potters were given one at birth that they were to be buried with when they died.

James's blood ran cold.

He calmly tucked the rapier in his belt, and then, with a bang from his wand, slid open the mausoleum door and stepped into the pouring rain.

St. Mungo's it was, then.

* * *

"So, what you're telling me," Remus said slowly, turning over his wand in his hand. "Is that your grandfather - who by all accounts is _dead _- your other grandfather/great-uncle - "

" - you've got to love inbreeding," Sirius interjected, looking bitter.

" - and your great-aunt - who are all in their late eighties and the biggest, bigoted blood purists you could ever meet - suddenly decided _to go have tea with a Muggle family in Surrey to kidnap Harry Potter?"_

"Yes!" Sirius insisted. "Look, Remus, what _other _reason would they have to invite you to tea if not to ransom off Harry?"

"To kill me," Remus said dryly. He sighed. "Sirius, you of all people know that - however insane your relatives are - they're not stupid. They would know, that as a werewolf, I wouldn't have money for a ransom."

"I wouldn't put it past Arcturus," Sirius snorted. "The man can't do any research, Cassie's always harping on about it. But, no, Remus, not _money _ransom. The family's rich enough. Arcturus could want Dumbledore, he could even want to raise Harry as a Black heir - hell, he could want _me_ to come back. He could want Voldemort."

Remus massaged his temples. The thought of Harry, poor Harry - already run over by life so many times - in the hands of the Blacks…his cub. Remus clenched his wand tightly in steely determination.

"What do we do?" Remus asked, standing up.

Sirius's grin was malevolent and his eyes sparkled with manic glee in the dull moonlight.

"Easy," Sirius practically cackled. "We kidnap Harry Potter."

* * *

Harry yawned as he woke up to morning light.

He blinked as someone slid his glasses on his face. Where was he? He should be at the Dursleys', bleeding out on the floor or making breakfast.

"Harry, dear, it is time to wake up. I have breakfast and things to discuss."

Harry looked towards the person who spoke; she holding open the curtains on one side of the bed. It was Cassiopeia, looking as primped and pressed as yesterday. The only difference was the blue gown and overrobes she now wore.

"I - ah - " Harry spluttered. So…he really _was _here, wherever that happened to be? It wasn't a dream?

"Close your mouth," Cassiopeia instructed, wrinkling her nose. She drew her wand, flicking it at the curtains so they fastened themselves to the bedposts. "You haven't brushed your teeth in a few days, my dear, and I'm afraid it shows."

Harry shut his mouth with a click, face heating up. He struggled to prop himself up against the pillows, but grit his teeth and collapsed when pain shot like a javelin through his side.

Breathing through his teeth and eyes clamped shut, Harry waited for the pain to fade. Harry forced his eyes open when the pain dulled to see Cassiopeia sitting on the side of the bed, lips pursed and looking oddly troubled.

"I apologize, Harry," she frowned. "I did not realize the pain relieving potions would have worn off by now."

"'S…fine…"

"Healer Koloman has left a strict regimen of pain potions and other nutrient potions to help you recover," Cassiopeia told him, running her hands through his hair. Harry stiffened, but slowly relaxed into her touch. "Unfortunately, they all must be taken on a full stomach. That heralds breakfast time," Cassiopeia retracted her hand and stood. "Come now, Harry."

Harry grimaced, but Cassiopeia helped him slowly slide out of the bed and stand, leaning heavily against her.

"You are on strict bed rest, of course," Cassiopeia continued, helping Harry slowly inch away from the bed a pace that would have made a snail jealous. "But your muscles will simply atrophy if you spend to much time in that bed." Cassiopeia stopped, seeing Harry gape, open-mouthed, at the room before him.

"Where…where _are _we?"

The room was large with ebony hardwood floors, gray walls, and a domed ceiling that reminded Harry of Gryffindor Tower. The bed that Harry had been in before was pressed up against the left wall, taking up most of the space except for the door on the left-handed side of the behemoth bed. Everything about the room was gray fabrics with ebony woods, but _that _was only the beginning of the color scheme.

On the back wall, in the middle, was a large fireplace made of black marble, the mantle was a carved pattern that looked like curling serpents. A table with three chairs on either side was in front of the fireplace, stacked high with silver platters of mouthwateringly fresh breakfast foods. On either side of the fireplace, the walls were actually floor-to-ceiling windows framed by heavy silver drapes. The wall across from the back wall held a set of heavy double doors.

The right wall was composed entirely of floor-to-ceiling bookcases filled with thick, leather-bound volumes. A desk sat in front of the bookcases with a silver-cushioned, wingbacked chair behind it and an empty owl stand next to it.

But the ceiling was the best. It reminded Harry less of the Great Hall and more of a planetarium he had been to in grade three. The dome ceiling glittered with the stars from the night sky, connected by misty white lines that formed beautiful illustrations - a winding snake that was breathing fire, two majestic lions, a Grecian warrior with a drawn sword and Godric-awful looking decapitated head with snakes for hair. There were multicolored dots of light that Harry thought might be planets or distant stars. The strange ticks and markings that bordered the rim of the dome that reminded Harry of an astronomy map he had once seen.

"You like the ceiling, yes?" Cassiopeia asked, looking up at it with Harry. "It reflects the night sky - I believe you've already gathered that. But during the day, it reflects the constellations we would be looking at if not for the sun."

"Where _are _we?" Harry repeated.

"Why, your chambers, of course," Cassiopeia said airily. "Come now, Harry, breakfast time."

"_My _chambers - ? You can't be serious," Harry protested weakly as Cassiopeia helped him stagger towards the table.

"You will be hard pressed to find a time when I am not serious," Cassiopeia sniffed. "Of course these are your chambers, Harry. You do remember our talk last night, do you not? These are the heir's chambers. You are the heir."

"But I - I - " Harry tried to think. How could he articulate that he most certainly _did not _deserve this? Cassiopeia helped him slide into a cushioned chair before sitting herself across from Harry.

"Harry," Cassiopeia said softly. "Look at me. Listen to me, dear."

Harry looked into Cassiopeia's eyes, biting his tongue.

"You will find few children in the world, Harry," Cassiopeia said, a gentle lilt to her voice, "who truly _do not _deserve to be treated as if they are loved. And I can tell you, Harry Potter, that you are most certainly loved. I, my brother, and my cousin shall treat you as such. Now, a _truly_ pressing concern: tea, coffee, or juice?"

"Ah…pumpkin juice would be fine, thank you," Harry mumbled as Cassiopeia poured him a glass of pumpkin juice and herself a cup of tea.

Harry plucked his napkin off his plate, remembering his manners, and placed it on his lap as he tried to remember what fork went with what.

Cassiopeia served him breakfast, steadfastly ignoring his protests he could serve himself (he was glad, though - he could only imagine the pain at reaching for that _amazing_ looking bacon). She also ignored his assurances that all he needed was toast ("No one should be that thin, my dear. You are starting to resemble a twig. Do eat slowly, though.") and piled high a plate of bacon, toast, fruit, grits, and three different colored potions.

"Harry," Cassiopeia spoke, eyes narrowed as she watched him eat ("Slowly," she had cautioned him). "Do you remember our talk from last night?"

Harry nodded, taking a sip of pumpkin juice. How could he forget? That was possibly the strangest conversation in his life, wherein Cassiopeia had worn a murderous expression the entire time she interrogated him on history.

Cassiopeia flicked her wand, and three books, which had been stacked at the other end of the table, came floating to sit at the place next to Harry. Harry recognized the books - _A History of Magic, Hogwarts: A History, _and a book Hermione liked: _Modern Magical Theory._

"I would like to speak to you more on the subject," Cassiopeia said delicately. Harry was getting a bad feeling about this, "for I believe there are some facts essential for you to know. However, I can understand apprehension about the validity of my facts, seeing as I am from a traditionally blood purist family."

Harry looked at her sharply. Blood purist? Like the Malfoys, or Voldemort?

"As you know, Harry, the world is a complicated and dangerous place. Our world, especially, seems to attract the worst type of scum," Cassiopeia's lips thinned, and for the first time Harry wondered bitterly if so-called _Mudbloods_ qualified as scum. Cassiopeia caught his eyes and continued on firmly. "Blood purity is not as black and white as it seems, I can assure you. But it also has a profound affect on our world. And you, Harry, are a main figure in our world, whether you like it or not," Cassiopeia overrode Harry's instantaneous protests.

"And I wish for you to understand _why _the world is the way it is. I can understand, through this admission, why you would not trust my word. Because of that, I have different references for you to compare my story to."

Cassiopeia folded her hands over her cup of tea. Harry leaned back in his seat - he hadn't really trusted her to begin with, but Harry did _believe _her, and his respect for her rose a few notches for her with her refreshing honesty.

"The magical world was not as cohesive and connected as it once was," Cassiopeia began. "No one is sure, exactly, how magic started, but wizards and witches would generally live in clans that would rise into power, defeat the other clans, and then die back down again. But what we do know is that, seven centuries before Hogwarts was even started, twelve family clans came into prominence."

Harry watched in fascination, food completely forgotten, the fast-flipping pages of one of the books suddenly slowed. The book slowly progressed through twelve different decorated shields - what must be the family crests - but too fast for Harry to catch the names written under them.

"They rose to be lords of their lands," Cassiopeia continued, taking a sip of her tea, "each family distinguishing themselves for their unique and powerful areas of expertise in magic. Five centuries before Hogwarts was founded, after years of bloodshed, the lords of each house gathered together to create the Alliance of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families."

At her words, two of the books' pages stopped flipping. One book showed an illustration of twelve dignified looking men around a stone table, leaning on staffs with different colored crystals embedded in the top. The other page showed a copy of an old historical document, the top reading: _The Treaty of the Twelve_.

"They agreed to all equally govern the land in their own capacities: one house would be the House of War, the other to be the House of Economy, the House of Infrastructure (though it was not called that at the time)…so on and so forth. The nature of the Houses' realm of influence made it so that lords were forced to cooperate and work together in harmony to the point where many lords were good friends. Each House, you see, had a lord, who ruled over the entire house; the presumptive heir, who followed his lord and did the lord's bidding as well as his own; and the head of house, the former lord who governed the family."

"Excuse me," Harry interrupted as Cassiopeia took another sip of her tea. "But are you saying there was no…king? Or minister? Um…Ms. Cassiopeia?"

"Aunt Cassiopeia, Harry; and no. It was the Houses who regulated themselves. Each member of the houses - especially the heirs, lords, and heads - would take vows to never fall into corruption, to never abuse their powers, to not go against the Three Values of their House, to do the bidding of their head, lord, and heir, to not marry within the Great Families as to keep the lines pure, and to uphold the Alliance among other things, all on the pain of loosing their magic."

"Why is that so bad?" Harry asked as he frowned at one of the book's illustration of a young man kneeling before twelve older men, who were sporting swords and wands instead of staffs. "Muggles have been living without magic for ages."

"Swearing on your magic was - _is -_ the most serious vow you could take," Cassiopeia answered, stirring her tea. "To break an oath of that magnitude was not just to court death; it was to essentially send yourself to hell. Even today, it is regarded as the height of dishonor to break a vow made upon your magic. Do eat, Harry, dear," she added, gesturing towards his now-cold plate. "And don't forget your potions."

"Yes…Aunt Cassiopeia," Harry added, grudgingly reaching for a sickeningly green potion as Cassiopeia continued on.

"Already at this time the Twelve Great Wizarding Families were prosperous and powerful. Over the centuries they gained even more wealth and the collections of knowledge the houses were said to have had was incomparable. Under the direction of the Twelve Families, the Wizarding world of the United Kingdom flourished and grew to be one of the most formidable in the world. This was most especially during the time before Hogwarts, where the families raised many witches and wizards into great standing, who, in turn, became loyal vassals of the houses…which is where the fault lines began to grow. After years of noble service, some of these families were granted lordships - a lower lordship - in the form of The Most Ancient House, as opposed to The Most Noble and Ancient House."

Harry munched on a piece of bacon as he avidly watched the shields the book was flipping through; at least fifteen more had been added.

"These Houses," Cassiopeia explained, "were subject to the ultimate Alliance of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families; the ruling Council of Lords. But these houses grew very powerful in their own right and started to demand to have a voice in the government…indeed," she gave an unladylike snort. "Some of the Great Houses started to rely so much on their vassals they neglected to take their vows, to do their duties, and a Dark Lord - who came from one of the Great Families, even! - rose to power because of the negligence of this act. Partly in response to the Dark Lord fiasco, by the time it approached the fifteenth century, there were so many Ancient Houses and so much demand for another voice that the Alliance's Council of Lords created the Wizengamot. The Wizengamot was a council who could ultimately decide to veto a decision made by the Alliance in the form a majority vote."

Frowning, Harry watched as one book stopped on the illustration of a council of maybe twenty-five or so middle aged men on a raised dais in front of a man in chains. While the second book was open to a section titled _The Emergence of the Wizengamot, _the third book was open to a section called _The First Failures of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families._

"The main difference was, however, this: they did not have to take oaths on corruption or power abuse," Cassiopeia's lip curled. "The formation of the Wizengamot was the start of blood purity; the Twelve Families looked down on Wizengamot, deeming them "lesser" purely out of resentment for being backed into a corner, but the Wizengamot - and what became the Ministry - started to look down on the Twelve because of what they felt was an archaic system. Nonetheless, the system worked, for a while; everyone was happy."

Harry's brow creased. The beginnings of blood purity and everyone was happy? That couldn't last for long.

"However," Cassiopeia confirmed his suspicions, "The Most Ancient Houses were gaining vassals who they, as well, rewarded with lordships for their service. The Most Noble Houses - as they were called - started to demand a voice, as well, and by the time the seventeenth century rolled around and while the Twelve Great Wizarding Houses refused to give the Most Noble Houses a place on the Wizengamot, the Wizengamot - made up of the lords of The Most Ancient Houses - vetoed the decision and the Wizengamot was expanded, all in an attempt to undermine the Twelve Great Wizarding Families. It worked," Cassiopeia said bitterly.

As she started to speak again, the books flipped by summarized reforms, treatises, and treaties. "The Wizengamot slowly started to push for more and more power. As they got their power - winning all of the votes by landslides - the Twelve Families became more and more embittered; members refused point blank to take oaths while corruption and abuse of the Twelve Families' extensive powers started to grow, hurting everyone in the process. With the power the Wizengamot collected, they started to lay the foundations for the Ministry of Magic, which precipitated an instant backlash from the Twelve Families, but a positive one from the public. And then, when Muggle England had just recognized the independence of the Muggle United States of America after the American War of Independence, the victory of the Muggles bolstered the idea of a Ministry. Within a century, the Alliance of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families were ousted from power with, surprisingly, no bloodshed whatsoever and replaced by the Ministry of Magic. The ensuing years, however…"

Harry did the math in his head. That added up to about the mid to late eighteen hundreds, right? It was true that the technological progression of the Wizarding world seemed to stop there. The only invention Harry had seen that stood beyond that time period - besides Mr. Weasley's flying car - were the radios that played the Wizarding Wireless Network, and that was nothing like the fancier Muggle radios.

"To add insult to injury, the Ministry laid claim to many of the ancient artifacts that the Twelve Families possessed: artifacts, that when used by the Great Families, protected the land from invaders, brought in bountiful harvests, and could build a street or castle as quick as you please," Cassiopeia said, leaning back in her chair. For once, she looked more tired than bitter. _It is a real shame,_ Harry thought as he stared, fascinated, at a moving illustration of an entire house being built from foundation up at lightening pace; pieces of timber and plumbing spinning through the air as the moved into place. _All those useful things gone to waste._ "Laws were starting to be passed: members of the House of War could not join law enforcement, members of the House of Diplomacy could not join political pursuits, the members of the House of the Environment could not sell their wares or, indeed, grow them…the members of the Great Families, even those who fought to restore the Houses to glory and honor, were humiliated and branded traitors and Dark Lords. Of course, in doing so, the Ministry _made_ what they despised and feared come to be."

Harry watched as the books again flipped through more reforms and laws, but his focus lay on an illustration of a Dark Lord that looked unerringly like a cross between an older Draco Malfoy and Voldemort.

"Over the next century, the Houses languished and rose to glory and took a middle ground and then fell even farther then before, especially when they started to intermarry. However, things began to reach a middle ground around the early twentieth century. The Great Families started to simply deal with their lot in life and lived without complaints as a heavy influx of Mu…Muggle-borns started in."

Harry tensed. This was getting to what he was interested in, but also very wary of.

"The Muggle-borns," Cassiopeia began, very carefully choosing her words. "Were disgusted with the stasis of the Wizarding world. Indeed, the fact that the Great Houses both refused and were not allowed to do their jobs meant many things: the technology of the Wizarding world is and was stuck in the eighteen hundreds, wars had and have been long and arduous, the environment is struggling, the magical creatures are fiercely persecuted, and many more travesties."

Cassiopeia leaned forward.

"This, Harry, is where the blood purity we know today set in," she said seriously. "As I said, the Ministry could not communicate well with the magical creatures like the House of Creatures, so they began to shun and persecute them. (Though, truthfully, they _was _persecution when the Twelve Families reigned.) But this was when the Wizengamot and wizards in general were getting frustrated with the superiority of the Muggle-borns but did not want to admit their faults. Though, truthfully, they were scared as well - many a witch and wizard had not escaped the Muggles' persecution of things strange, and many Muggle-borns had attempted a crusade on the Wizarding world in the beginning of Hogwarts's time. The Wizarding world was also acutely aware of how technologically advanced the Muggles were. They just did not want to admit it. But it was simpler for the Wizengamot - and, I must admit, most of the Great Wizarding Families - that they looked down upon the Muggle-born simply because they were born of Muggles then admit to their fear and growing hate. There was even some truth to it - the fear that the Muggle-borns generated was associated with Muggles. While Muggle-borns had never been particularly well-like, persecution rose to an unprecedented rate for Muggle-borns as the war set in for, indeed, the Dark Lord Grindelwald had risen to power.

"His first act was the slaughter almost every member of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families, leaving only the main line, protected as they were by the family magic. The Wizengamot regarded this act with passivity and the Great Families with rage, as it was illegal for them to fight. He began killing millions of Muggles, but when he turned to Muggle-borns, the Wizengamot may have acted passively, but the Muggle-borns did not. It was their actions and their leadership that ultimately brought Grindelwald to his knees (with much backing from the Twelve Families, I can assure you), but the Ministry was quick to cover this up and suppressed the Muggle-borns more than ever. But for the Twelve Great Wizarding Families, things settled out."

"What?" Harry blurted out angrily. "All those people died and the Ministry did nothing…just let them die because they had _Muggles _for parents? That's not right!"

Cassiopeia's face was carefully blank, which just made Harry more angry.

"Won't you say anything? Why, don't care because they're _lesser _beings? Prejudice only ends up getting people killed, you know," Harry spat, not caring he was talking to his great-aunt and elder that way. He started to turn away. "How people could stand to live with themselves, I'll never know."

Cassiopeia reached across the table and grasped his hand before he could turn away.

"Harry," she said sharply, tilting his head up to meet hers. There was a regretful look in her eyes that didn't suit her rigid countenance at all. "Two days ago, I would have fiercely disagreed with you. And I cannot tell you I _like _Muggles or Muggle-borns, or any others of the lesser houses, it is true," she admitted. "But…no, I do not blame them for my own failings. That takes far too much effort. But don't you see? So many people _do _blame the closest things around for their own shortcomings. That is what I'm trying to tell you."

"That's not all you're trying to tell me," Harry pointed out mutinously, leaning back in his chair as Cassiopeia retracted her hands.

"No," Cassiopeia agreed, "but will you listen to the rest?"

Harry flushed, slightly embarrassed at his outburst. He nodded.

"Everything was mostly well…that was, until, Lord Voldemort. Voldemort's coming should be more accurately termed the final downfall of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families," Cassiopeia pursed her lips. "The rise of the Dark Lord was…monumental, whatever way you slice it. While the Ministry did not understand what was happening until later, it tore the remaining Twelve Families apart at the seams. You see, Harry, Lord Voldemort presented an unprecedented opportunity. He was powerful - more powerful than Albus Dumbledore by far! - he _saw _how things were supposed to be: how the wretched Ministry should be taken down, the lesser beings destroyed, and how, most importantly, the golden age of magic in England should be restored…for, you see, it was the _unimaginable_. While he played along the rest of the purebloods, who could only see ridding the Muggles from the world, the Dark Lord was, in fact, a member of one of the Twelve Families. Not only that, but an heir - and, somehow, completely unbound by all Ministry laws…" Cassiopeia trailed off, an unreadable look on her face, but she was speaking like she couldn't stop. "The rightful place of the Families, completely restored! - the Twelve Families were in _rapture. _

"Most of them, that was. And that was what destroyed the Great Families.

"What remained of the Alliance was rapidly torn apart; Light or Dark, Dumbledore or Voldemort. It was only the elders of the Houses that stayed neutral. But it was not just Houses: it was literally brother against brother…it was _the _worst thing I could possibly hope to imagine. Because imagination was what it was. No one _saw _mother versus daughter; they saw what was right and what was below them. _That _was the true downfall of the Twelve Great Wizarding Families. And, looking back, I believe that was what Voldemort wanted all along. The passivity of the elders was a mistake that must never be repeated, for Voldemort's actions did not just tear apart the Families. They tore apart families."

Harry felt sick to his stomach as he could hear Voldemort's high laugh mixing with his mother's screams. Yes, he knew how Voldemort could tear apart families, even just ordinary ones. And while on the subject…

"Aunt Cassiopeia," Harry said slowly, "you never told me who the Twelve Great Wizarding Families _were_."

"The Twelve Great Wizarding Families…" Cassiopeia paused before looking at him strangely, but not unkindly. "I must remind you, the names of the families has differed over the generations, what with marriages and family feuds, but it started with the House of Transportation; the Gaunt family had ultimate duty and control over the transportation in the United Kingdom. All of their power and family was based around protecting and improving transportation. It was the same with the House of Communication, ruled by the Zabini family. Next was the House of Environment, the Greengrasses. The House of Economy, the Prewetts. The House of Creatures, the Lovegoods. The House of Intellect, the Longbottoms. The House of Health, the Lestranges. The House of Justice, the Boneses. The House of History, the Malfoys. The House of Diplomacy, the Blacks. The House of Infrastructure, the Weasleys. And finally…the House of War, the Potters."

_Well, _thought Harry as he stared at the pumpkin juice he had spat out across the table and a visibly annoyed Cassiopeia dabbing it off her face, _that was…unexpected. _

"There's only one problem, Aunt Cassiopeia," Harry said conversationally, his mind strangely blank and his hands shaking rapidly. "Voldemort? He's kind of a half-blood."

* * *

No one was more surprised than Regulus Black when he woke up to sunlight blaring in his eyes and trying simultaneously to spit out sand and cough up salt water on to the crushed shells and rocks of the sea shore.

Regulus collapsed on his back, wincing as the wind ripped through his drenched and heavy velvet clothes; it made the sunny, sixty degree weather feel like a walk through a frozen hell.

_Speaking of hell, _Regulus groggily thought, retching out more saltwater. There was no way the potion was still in his system now, not after all _that. _And Kreacher had the locket - hell.

Holy hell.

Holy _bleeding _hell.

He should be dead - he should be dead and drowned or a cruel mockery of a human as a slaving inferius, his body doomed to protect the _thing _he had given his life to destroy…

Holy hell, he should _really _be dead.

"KREACHER!"

Disclaimer: I do not own any Harry Potter or JKR's works, no copyright infringement intended, no money being made here, and all recognizable characters, places, settings, etc. all belong to their respective owners.


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